


face of depression

by saintjoy



Series: Historystuck [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Great Depression, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintjoy/pseuds/saintjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Think you can give a dying man a bit of a show?" You ignore the gleeful skip your heart gives and try to compose yourself as you kneel down and open the bag you had slung over your shoulder. You take out your favorite puppet, one you've named Little Calvin; Lil' Cal for short. His round blue eyes stare the young man in the face and limbs dangle so far the leather shoes get scuffed in the dirt. "Jesus Almighty, that's terrifying."<br/>"He ain't hostile." You pick up one of Lil' Cal's arms and hold out his hand towards him. In your altered voice and mastered way of keeping your mouth shut, you speak for your doll. "Nice to meet you, Mister Strider. My name's Calvin, but you can call me Cal."<br/>He takes the puppet's hand and gives it a shake. "Nice t' meet you. Name's Dave."</p>
            </blockquote>





	face of depression

_Texas, August 8th, 1934_

 

"You got some change to spare, sir?"

 

You look down at the scruffy young man lying in the dry dirt with his blonde hair matted and sticking up in uncomfortable-looking ways. His skin is a painful red and peeling away at his joints and the curves of his face. He has a grimy hand outstretched towards you, but his arm cannot be raised any higher than the knee of your pressed slacks. You're a man with a meandering business; it's not successful, but it's not failing, either. The not failing part is what matters in this year of 1934. After a few seconds of frozen eye contact--seemingly unrequited on his end, being that you are wearing your sun cheaters that block your eyes--he lets his hand drop. "I understand. Hard times, can't really scrape up a few dimes here and there for some bastard on the street. Gotta save those to feed the kids at home. I don't even got kids." He shifts where he sits and coughs out a puff of dusty air. "Face of depression, that's me. No need to pity me; I already do enough of that for myself. Have a good day, mm? God bless you." You continue to stare at him. The sliver of skin you can see under his shirt collar is as pale as bone. His hair is nearly translucent. Come to think of it, what color were his eyes again?

 

Red. A maraschino cherry red, glimmering underneath pale eyelashes as he averts his gaze from you. "Yeah, I'm a freak, I get it. Ain't that why I don't got a job? Anyone with employment wouldn't hire some kook like me. Other than maybe a brothel. What women go to brothels that aren't harlots, then?" He licks at his chapped lips. The skin is peeling from them as well. "Unless there are some deviant men looking for a good love from another of his sex. Not my place to argue if he's got dough to roll out." His bones crack as he straightens and moves his neck up. "Maybe a sugar daddy'd be a nice thing to have. Never had a daddy since my first day of life. Went off to the Great War, left my momma behind. Don't think she ever told him about me. Big little secret, I was. She was a right whore anyways. Left me behind with her pretty little daughter--my little sister, sweetheart but she talked too damn much--for some chap she met at a movie theater who was richer than King Midas. Don't know if my daddy ever came back. If he did he'd've probably gone to New York to make a better fortune." He lets out a breathy laugh. "Wonder how he's doing now. Knowing the luck of Striders he's probably more rich than the dog my momma went after. I'm just the unfortunate prick sitting around feeling damn sorry for himself. What I got? Shit. Guess that's how it goes." He sighs, and then you can't see his vibrant irises anymore after he closes his eyes. "Always liked movies. Dreamed of making them one day." An eye cracks open again. "What d'you do for a living, sir?"

 

You momentarily puzzle at the question. You hadn't realized that you were present at this one-sided conversation, rather than listening to it over the radio sitting on the kitchen counter. "You talk at all, mister?"

"I own a specialty shop," you reply. "Sell puppets and ventriloquism accessories. All handmade, fetching for high prices."

"That so?" He raises an eyebrow. "Do any of that yourself?"

"Of course I do. What kind of salesman would I be if I couldn't show off the products with my own skills?" You crack a grin. "A damn shitty one at that."

"Think you can give a dying man a bit of a show?" You ignore the gleeful skip your heart gives and try to compose yourself as you kneel down and open the bag you had slung over your shoulder. You take out your favorite puppet, one you've named Little Calvin; Lil' Cal for short. His round blue eyes stare the young man in the face and limbs dangle so far the leather shoes get scuffed in the dirt. "Jesus Almighty, that's terrifying."

"He ain't hostile." You pick up one of Lil' Cal's arms and hold out his hand towards him. In your altered voice and mastered way of keeping your mouth shut, you speak for your doll. "Nice to meet you, Mister Strider. My name's Calvin, but you can call me Cal."

He takes the puppet's hand and gives it a shake. "Nice t' meet you. Name's Dave."

"Well, Mister Dave Strider, how old are you on the 8th day of August in the good year of 1934?"

"Twenty-three."

"Ever gone to college? I remember going far away overseas where I could get as much alcohol as I wanted. Those Brits know how to party!" He chuckles and it sounds melancholy.

"Tried, but couldn't pay for it. I apprenticed under a local filmmaker for a while, but the guy never let me do anything my way. Left 3 days later." You chuckle and it sounds foreign to you.

"If I didn't know better I would've guessed he made you travel in the desert for 40 days, from the looks of you!" You raise Lil' Cal's arms up in the air in a questioning motion. "Got a place to stay?"

"Do I look like it?"

"Need one?"

"Nah. It'd be nice, though. You don't got to put more stress on your family by bringing some beggar home."

"This loser," you gesture towards yourself with Cal's hand, "ain't got no family but me! And I'm just some stuffed guy he made when he was about 5 years younger than you. No wonder his lady left him!" You bite down on your thumbnail. "Get your derriere out of the dirt and come along; he'll even carry you if he's got to."

"I'm albino, not paralyzed." You get to your feet and he gets to his. Lil' Cal pats him on the back and you let your own hand linger for a few moments after.

"He makes enough to sustain the three of us. All he has to do with me is put me in his bag!"

He chuckles again. "Thanks, Cal. And...?"

You lower the puppet and break your character of silence. "You can call me Bro."


End file.
